Any Other Name
by sfiddy
Summary: Strange that the name of an orphan girl has been on the lips of so many. A 5 1 story that got out of hand. Christine/The Persian


Strange that the name of an orphan girl has been on the lips of so many.

* * *

1.

Perhaps it was because the road had been rougher than most. Perhaps her papa was feeling lonelier than usual. Whatever the reason, little six year old Christine Daaé decided that she should comfort her papa, rather than the other way round, and sang the lullaby he often played for her on his violin.

On a windswept hillside somewhere far from home, in the cheapest room in the inn, her papa looked up and began to laugh through his tears. For the next ten years they brought music to town squares, festivals, and private parlours. They stayed with Roma, singing for their supper and a place to sleep for the night, and for months at a time they stayed at fine estates and grand lodges. Performances were part entertainment and part lesson, with her papa correcting her and educating her as they provided music at the pleasure of the household.

"Christine," he would chide gently, "you must keep time. Again, again!" Her daydreaming and imagining was fine, but not when they made music.

He could not sing himself, so the only model he could offer was his violin. Little Christine strove to match the sound and agility of his bow. She learned that her posture mattered, and her papa knew enough to teach her to find the pitch.

"Listen, Christine!" He would warble the note, and she earned her vibrato.

Softly, under his breath, "Now, Christine." She learned her cues, listened for his, and by her eighth year, patrons were delighted when Maestro Daaé was joined by his pretty daughter with the voice of an angel.

"Sing with your heart, Christine!" He sometimes wandered, though never far. He lingered in churches they were not members of, to listen to the organ and choirs. To pray. To weep.

"Go warm up, Christine. We must play tonight. I'll follow soon." She sometimes wondered if he would not.

When she was in her thirteenth year, her voice gained richness. It had come on gradually but by this time she could sing the music of women, not babes. Papa let her stay up later and she sang masterworks alongside her folk songs and lullabies. He never said, but somewhere between her heart and spine was the empty place that told her that she was beginning to resemble her mother.

Her papa grew sadder. He withdrew. Then he died. But he died with her name on his lips, not her mother's.

Always her loving papa, her first teacher. His guidance was inconsistent but his love never was.

2.

Professor and Mama Valerius were not real. They could not be. No hosts or manor lords had ever treated her as a daughter before. Then, Christine supposed, she'd had her papa then. She already was someone's daughter then.

"Christine, dear, will you pour tea?"

Of course she would. It was so little and they gave her so much. With no children of their own and money enough for all their needs and wants, they settled their affections on the pretty orphan with the lovely voice. She sang most evenings, and learned a little piano on others.

"Our Christine will do such wonderful things, don't you think, dear?"

"Without a doubt. I have spoken with the conservatory and they will have an opening next year!"

She was overjoyed. To be trained, to dance and sing and perform! Christine sang until she needed tea to soothe the scratch away.

After Professor Valerius passed, Mama was not quite the same after, but she insisted Christine go to the conservatory. By day, seventeen year old Christine began her studies and trained for the ballet. By night she tended Mama Valerius.

"Christine, would you stoke the fire, dear? The autumn chill is getting into my bones." It was only just August, but Christine did as bid. She had been a good daughter to her father, and she would do right by her benefactor.

She limped on aching, bandaged feet to the fireplace and jabbed the poker, scattering sparks.

3.

"Christine!"

Her name was accompanied by the sharp rap of the ballet instructor's cane. It sent a bolt across her skin every time and made her jump.

"You forget your mark and cues. Again." The rest of the conservatory thought Christine terribly nervous. The truth was she was simply sensitive, having been raised with music more than any other sounds.

"Again!" Christine raced to comply. She did better, but only when she could hear music, not clumsy hammering upon keys.

"Christine, repeat the phrase!"

Her tendency to dream, letting her mind fly, was at odds with the strict forms and structure of theory and practice. Her Swedish, charming in homes closer to Germany, was not well received here. Nor was her improvising, learned by Romani firelight to the slapping of a guitar belly or the wilder violins of the families that let them stay. Their dances spun out in red and green.

"Christine! Again!"

"Christine?" said the other rats. Girls with agile limbs and passable voices. Christine was different enough to be interesting but ordinary enough to be accepted. They whispered their secrets into her ears and braided her hair and she did the same in return. They came to the chapel when she lingered too long and tugged her to follow.

"Christine!" She was shorthand for dreamy distraction and prayer. An odd little monk of a girl. They thought perhaps she did not belong there with the patrons and the gallery and the galas and noise. Perhaps Christ had chosen the girl. They thought she should go to the convent.

They did not know she had an angel.

4.

"Upstart toad!"

Carlotta never used her name. Always a curse or cut, if she even bothered. It didn't matter. Christine knew she did not have the kind of voice Carlotta had, did not have the confidence.

But she had her angel.

5.

"Lotte!"

When they were children, Raoul pulled her braids. He did ridiculous things, gallant things, childishly chivalric things. She liked it, for it made her feel like a princess. She would sing while her papa played and Raoul and his family sipped tea or chocolate or wine.

When they were grown, Raoul came to her dressing room door. He did ridiculous things like shout from his box seat and clap too loud. She liked it, for it made her feel like a princess once again, and not the upstart chorus rat she felt like. She would sing while he drank champagne.

He still called her by a childish nickname. A game. She was no longer a child.

"Christine!" he would shout after her.

"My Christine," was in her mind.

Hot and cold, like the water in the magical taps. One moment tender and adoring, the next screaming, weeping. Threats, music, glory and madness all in one There was no chivalry, only a strange devotion she did not know what to do with. It would be easy to simply comply, to give in, but where would she be then?

"My Christine!" Always his need to have, to claim and possess. The edge of a knife was brilliant until it cut you. He was a genius, he was insane. He was Erik. His heart was large but it was damaged, so deeply damaged. It was romantic; tempting to imagine that love could heal a broken, shredded, abused heart, but Christine knew better. Her Papa had taught her that. To heal Erik would eat her alive and that was not love, no matter how much anyone wanted it to be.

Even her.

+1

After months of grand gestures and elaborate gifts, quiet hospitality in the face of shared sorrows and horror was unexpected. It was modest, his home on the Rue de Rivoli. The carpet was worn in places and the heavily trimmed pillows frayed here and there. The first of many papers, tracked with terribly formed letters, was stark and brief. It was utterly wrenching in its audible aching, like hearing the scratch of his pens.

There are tiny blurs here and there. Careful blotting had not erased the marks.

They are the only two who shed tears now. Maybe Erik knew, and that was why he disposed of his goods and fortunes this way, with documents that led to more documents and complex legal arrangements, all valuable and profitable. As twisted and treacherous as the underground world he'd created, but paved with silver. They would both be quite wealthy once the proceedings were compete. So they must meet again.

…

Raoul was quietly ecstatic. She was wearing his ring again and this time on her finger. She would be his vicomtesse and be the finest, most graceful decoration the whole of France had ever seen.

She'd not noticed the ring on her finger until the day after when, in the bath to wash away the last of the cobwebs and muck of the fifth cellar from herself. He'd slipped it on her after whisking her off to his family's estate.

It sparkled gaily on it's delicate band. It was blinding in sunshine. It was all wrong.

She rather missed the low luster of the other ring she'd worn, even if she had not wished to wear it either. Even more, she wanted the comfort of something more… comfortable. Solid.

...

Mama Valerius was more gone than not, but this night she set clear eyes upon Christine.

"It's the angel again, isn't it, my dear?"

"Yes, Mama." Christine was running dry of words. There had been so many.

Mama nodded, the lace of her cap twitching. "They cannot stay, you know. Strange things, angels. Twisted things."

Christine looked up. "What do you mean?"

Mama smiled at Christine as if she were a child with too many questions. "They yearn for heaven, so God speaks to them." She paused, satisfied with her answer, but Christine only stared. "My dear girl, you cannot hear God and come away unmarked."

Christine wanted to ask more, but Mama's eyes had fogged over, lost in her mind once more.

...

"Welcome, Mademoiselle Daaé." He always welcomes her with a bow. It is his respect and concern for her, not offered to someone else's conferred rank. He knows the devotion, twisted as it was, that has been given to her. It's clear in every line of the documents they untangle and accounts they sometimes name, sometimes hint at. They two are at the heart of it all.

"Monsieur Khan," she nods before settling into a chair. She sits in the same one every time now and notices that the cushions have been restuffed.

The solicitor is ready and they begin. Tea comes and goes, as does the day. She barely noticed.

…

Mama Valerius sipped her broth and wheezed. Christine scolded herself; Mama would not be ill if she had been there to keep warm bricks in her bed, or air the rooms at midday, or make sure the fires were stoked properly. A litany of her shortfalls were to blame and now Christine mopped Mama's forehead and composed a carefully worded message to Raoul. She may not be available for a visit, and please extend her regrets to his sisters. She was certain Mama Valerius would be better soon, and would join them then.

She was not certain why, but she called the messenger back and dashed off a second message. This one was a plainspoken scrawl, wasting no words for the sake of grace.

_Mama V ill, so worried. Scared to lose her. Unable to come, please continue next papers without her._

Darius himself arrived within an hour bearing a small pot of richly spiced stew, a tiny box, and a note.

_Caring for others is a labor of the heart. Do not neglect yourself. _

There was a small chocolate in the box, and no mention of the papers anywhere.

...

Raoul did not like how much time she spent poring over the accounts and documents. He was afraid she was being pulled under the same spell again, only this time there was no villain and no monster. No boat, no passages to freedom. Only the memory, only a ghost.

"He's gone, Christine! He cannot hurt you, cannot ensnare you!"

Erik had not. His affairs were confounded, but no more unsolvable than a knotted twine. Careful picking loosened the strands, and each strand was thousands.

"More tea?" The tea was light and delicate today. It was lovely with the fruit Darius brought, and the creamy nut sweets were as rich and soothing as her companion's voice.

"You're going to spoil me, Muhammad," she laughed as she handed over her cup.

His skin could not hide the pink that crept into his ears. A man of quiet details, like the worn path in the carpet and the frayed bit on the sofa arm. His smiles were generous in size and number.

"Did _he_?" he asked softly.

"Sometimes," she replied in kind, and accepted a sweet on her saucer. Her vision blurred as she sank her teeth into it, sending the the room into a jewel-toned haze brightened by his gentle laugh.

She adored his little whims. His preference for slippers over shoes as they worked, his love of a mid afternoon stroll, and the way his rooms glowed in rich colors. The dignified pastels and creams with gold trims she was trying to adopt felt… constricting.

Perhaps Raoul was right to worry. He was just wrong about why.

…

A ball at the beginning of the season was an opportunity to make official announcements.

"It's no secret, Christine. Everyone knows we shall marry, we should simply give a date," Raoul pressed.

"If you announce our engagement, I will not be able to perform at the ball."

He set down his book less gently than he ought. "Why should that matter? You'll be the center of attention as it is!"

She refused to close her music portfolio to reply. "I need to keep performing. If I don't I will lose my edge."

"Are you a sword that you should need whetting?"

Careful to control her tone, Christine set her chin and leveled her eyes. "Am I not?"

Raoul met her flinty stare but soon retreated, fleeing with as much dignity as he could muster.

…

On an autumn day with more clouds than sun, Mama Valerius died quietly in her sleep. She was as courteous and kind in death as she had been in life, Christine supposed, though the thought did little to stem her tears.

"It's so sudden!" Raoul wailed. He clung to Christine, who had slept precious little those last few days. "You will need to move to the estate. I'll go at once to prepare the house. I'll send the maids to pack your things."

Through the fog of exhaustion and grief, Christine found it in herself to see him to the door. As a result, she was close by when a knock came.

"Muhammad?" Christine sobbed when he bowed to her, his eyes red and watery.

"Mademoiselle, forgive me… my intrusion… but I could not bear…" his voice broke and he bowed again.

With a cry, Christine dragged him up and threw her arms around him. For a moment he froze, not unlike another who she'd embraced without warning. This time, however, a powerful rush bore her back inside, out of the chilling evening, and settled her onto the couch.

"When did you last sleep, Christine?"

She looked around, as if the walls could provide the answer. They had witnessed everything, after all. "Maybe, three days? It is hard to say." It was hard to say anything, for words had become burdensome.

"And the Viscount left you alone?"

"He is sending maids to help me pack."

"Pack?" he spat.

Her eyes felt so strange, as though the room were tilting with Mohammad as its axis. "Yes, I will move to the estate soon and marry."

"You need sleep, not more work. Come," he stood and helped Chistine to her feet. "Give me five minutes and then we will go. Darius will watch over Madame Valerius and assist the maids." He dug out a dusty carpet bag and threw two dresses and the contents of one drawer of underthings into it. A dressing gown and slippers went in next, followed by the most accessible items of her toilette.

His quick movements left streaks in Christine's vision and made her head spin. She clutched at a wall. "What are you doing?"

"I swore an oath, mademoiselle," he latched the bag closed and gently led her to the door. "You are coming with me until you are well enough to return."

"Then what?" she asked.

Muhammad Khan slowed. "Then you can decide if you want to move to the viscount's estate."

…

The carriage rocked gently, lulling, and they had hardly gone the length of the street before exhaustion and emotion dropped Christine's head to Muhammad's shoulder.

There was something he said, she thought. Days without sleep and the lowering sun made her thoughts sticky.

Ah yes. "You said you swore an oath." Words were a struggle on her thick tongue. "To him?"

He did not stiffen. Raoul always grew rigid at these mentions, but Muhammad exhaled, like releasing a burden. "Yes."

Numbness crept up Christine's legs. "And what did you swear?" Her arms were limp and she began to slide but was caught before she fell over, her cheek cushioned by solid warmth.

"In his last hours, his mind returned to him," he began. Christine felt his voice as much as heard it as he tucked her close to his side. "He confessed his undying love for you and trembled when he recalled your last meeting. He begged forgiveness from every god ever named and damned himself by turns."

They both drew shaking breaths, and somehow her hand found his.

"He gave me his will and made me swear an oath." Deep breaths, his hand trembled in hers for a moment.

"I swore that I would allow no man to take your will from you again."

Perhaps it was the uneven road. Perhaps she dreamt it, but for a moment, she swore she felt his nose and lips brush her temple.

…

Mama Valerius was laid to rest on a chilly, wet morning. Leaves slapped onto headstones and clung to Christine's hands as she brushed by monuments and shrubs.

She took tea at Raoul's estate later. When she left, the carriage rode lower on its springs, her heavy trunks strapped overhead.

…

How strange that Erik had foreseen this, Christine thought. She was not ungrateful, but it was odd that a man so possessed by equal measures of love and madness should engage his expansive mind to the ends they did.

The bank accounts had been flung across all of Europe. Some few were yet inaccessible due to the changing political landscape, but time would pass and if not in their favor then in someone else's. They were shockingly wealthy for a pair of mismatched expatriates in Paris as it was.

"Where are you, my dear?"

Christine smiled as she closed her eyes and lifted her hair. The weight of a thick metal collar of jewels was cold and luxurious. "I am at La Scala. And I am singing Verdi today."

His hands were warm.

"La Daaé will bring them to their knees."

The mirror blurred them a little, which was just as well, for time has a way of passing and he disliked his grays. Christine loved them, and stood, turning, and tugged ever so gently at the salt in his beard.

They wore no rings. She had decided that a long time ago and they both found it suited them well enough. It was rather fashionable for artists these days anyway.

"And tonight I am singing for you."

He chuckled softly, and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "La Daaé will bring me to my knees as well, then."

He was never one to argue with her. He'd sworn an oath after all.

…


End file.
